Well, that’s not going to happen. All I have to do is determine where I am, and I’ll be out of here so fast Alpha won’t know what hit him.
I stand up, take a breath, and walk to the other end of the alleyway, to where the guy in the horse-drawn carriage was. Another horse clomps down the street in front of me, but I shake my head and ignore it. Elaborate setup, I repeat in my head.
I step out of the alley and immediately know where I am.
Boston.
I grew up in Vermont, but my mom would take me to the city to go shopping several times a year. Always in August to hit up Filene’s Basement right before school started. Always in December to buy Christmas gifts and ice-skate in the Common. And always one Saturday in the spring, at the first kiss of warmer weather. My mom would want to ride the swan boats in the Public Garden, though she’d never say anything as we drifted across the water. She’d close her eyes and inhale and do that thing she does where she purses her lips together really tight because she’s trying not to cry. And then I’d turn away and pretend to be looking at daffodils because my mom does that a lot and it never gets any easier to watch.
I can see the lake in the Public Garden from where I’m standing. It’s to the right and down the hill. Boston Common is directly in front of me, and the huge dome of the Massachusetts State House is looming over me. But it’s not gold like it usually is. It’s only partly gold but mostly this dismal leaden-gray color. It almost looks like they’re in the middle of gilding it.
That doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t need to be regilded. At least I don’t think it does.
There’s a clomp-clomp-clomp sound getting louder. I look down the street and jump away as yet another horse-drawn carriage rides past. A small boy hangs out of the back.
“Mummy,” he says. “Look at that boy in the funny pants. Why is his hair so long?”
A young mother gasps from inside the carriage and smacks her son’s hand down.
“James, you’re being impolite!” she scolds as the carriage rides away.
Every hair on my arm stands on end as I follow their carriage out of sight. Because there are more carriages. Dozens of them. And there are men and women walking by, giving me strange looks. The men have on top hats and suits, the women long, sweeping dresses. A man passes by me with a torch, lighting the streetlamps.
I blink.
This is real.
There is no way you can fake this. You can’t fake the entire city of Boston.
My eyes fly back to the Public Garden. To the pond. It’s dusk, but there’s enough light that I can see as clear as day that there aren’t any swan boats on that lake. I have to be stuck in a different time, a time before there were any swan boats.
A young man bumps his shoulder into mine and immediately jumps back.
“Oy!” he yells. “Watch where you’re going.” He looks me up and down, and I do the same. This guy is probably about my age, but that’s where the similarity ends. His clothes are dirty and torn, and his hair is unwashed. A layer of grime coats his skin, although even that doesn’t conceal the acne covering nearly every inch of his face. And then he takes a step toward me. I have at least four inches on him.
“Give me your money,” he demands.
I don’t think so. This little punk is not going to rob me—not like I have any money on me anyway.
“No,” I tell the pint-size thug.
He reaches into his pocket, and I see a flash of metal. I grab his arm, twist it around, and force the knife out of his hand. It clatters to the cobblestone street. That makes two knife attacks I’ve deflected in one day.
A woman screams a few yards away, and there’s a scuffling of footsteps as people try to get away. Two policemen wearing tall domed hats and carrying nightsticks push through the crowd to get to us.
Do not interact with anyone. Alpha’s warning rings in my ears once again. But this time I ignore it.
I’ve already talked to this boy. I can’t let these cops catch me. Best-case scenario, they’ll want to talk. Worst-case, they’ll pitch me into a jail cell.
I push the punk kid to the ground and take off down the same street as before. I round the corner to the street lined with brownstones, then look back. The cops aren’t following me. I pause and wait, just to make sure, but no one comes. Dodged a bullet there. But I’ve got to get out of these clothes. They’re killing me.
My hand starts tingling. The knapsack. I’d forgotten about it, even though I’m clutching it so hard the pattern of the cloth’s weaving is embedded in my skin. I kneel down and drop it into my lap. I fiddle with the tie until it opens, then I upend it. A mess of black fabric and a black, metal, twisted skeleton key fall into my lap. I set the key aside and unfurl the fabric. It’s a dress. It’s full-length with long sleeves, and that’s about all there is to it. I’ve never done more than sew a button on to a shirt, but I bet I could make this thing myself.
Still, it beats khaki pants in terms of blending in, so I glance both ways to make sure no one’s coming. The entire street is deserted. I slip my blazer and shirt over my head. For one quick second I look down at the red lump on my forearm. Where there’s now a tracker. A tracker.
I yank on the ugly dress and grunt as I try to wriggle it down my body. I kick off my shoes, slip off my pants, and hop up, swishing my hips side to side as I try to pull down the dress. It barely makes it. And I mean barely makes it. The seams are stretched so tight I see them straining, as if they’re about to give up and split open.
Please don’t split open, I tell them.
I can barely move, so bending over is out of the question. I catch the strap of the knapsack with my toe and kick it up in the air. My fingers snatch it, and I shove my hand in to pull out the shoes . . . only there are no shoes. The sack is empty.
Of course it is.
I shove my feet back into my Peel-issued oxfords, and without thinking, I bend down to help my heels in.
R-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-P!
Someone is laughing. Someone else is here. My head whips up to see a guy and a girl about my age, arm in arm, standing in front of a brownstone several yards away. The guy is average height but very thin, like a marathon runner, with sandy hair and a relaxed face. The girl is miniature sized. If her driver’s license says she’s five feet tall, it’s a lie. Both avert their gaze and turn onto the next street. Something feels off.
I grab my pants, jacket, and shirt and shove them into the knapsack, then toss the skeleton key on top. In one quick movement, I tie my navy-and-crimson Peel tie around my waist. It does nothing to hide the fact that there’s a huge tear along the side seam. My charm bracelet slides down on my wrist until it’s exposed. It’s very out of place for wherever—whenever—I am, so I fiddle with the clasp; but it sticks and it won’t budge and that couple is getting away. I don’t know why, but I need to follow them. So I tuck the bracelet under my sleeve, grab the knapsack, and run.
The couple is almost to the end of the street, back onto Beacon Street. I chase after them, but as soon as I make it to the street, I’ve lost them. I scan left and right, but they’re nowhere to be seen. The cops are still there, one of them holding the arm of the kid who tried to rob me. He’s begging and pleading, and . . . whatever. Punk. You deserve it. I turn my head toward the Public Garden.
Forget the couple for now. I need to figure out where I am.
When I am.
I draw in my breath. Can it be possible? Could I really have traveled back in time? What was that fancy term Alpha used? Something Augmentation?